


Chances

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: The Meraad Chronicles [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Blood and Injury, Gen, Healing, Injury, Magic, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, POV Third Person, Protectiveness, Self-Sacrifice, Vashoth, the bandits are secretly ben-hassrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 10:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: Meraad doesn't want any magic used on him. He doesn't trust mages, or magic in general. And not lighting his candles for him and all that is reasonable and all. But what's Turaz to do when her options are to disregard that rule or to let him bleed to death in front of her?





	Chances

In the last twenty-odd years of fighting, Meraad has learned a thing or two about blows you’re meant to take. There are blows you can’t block, or deflect, or dodge, so sometimes you have to grit your teeth and minimise damage.  
And sometimes you misjudge. It doesn’t happen often, because he’s still living after twenty-odd years of fighting. But it happens.

Well, he just misjudged.

In the last three months, he’s taken a hit or two for the kid. Maybe more like six or seven — seems like having her around shows some vulnerability that makes every brigand this side of Ferelden pile on him like sharks scenting blood. But it’s just little things, a shortsword here, a dagger there. A particularly nasty punch. Been injured plenty, it’s nothing new, not when his standard fighting style is “throw yourself between your squishies and the danger”.

But this one wasn’t even a hit he threw himself in the way of. He just underestimated the bandits they were up against.

Still, better him than her, he supposes when he takes a knife to the thigh while blocking an axe. Turaz is kicking someone’s ass behind him, he hopes, he fucking hopes.

“Watch out!” The Qunlat phrase kicks him into awareness, and “Archer!” tells him what he needs to know, but he can’t duck, can’t run. Kicks the guy with the knife down, splits his skull, too slow, and the axe is in his shoulder. The crunch is sickening. Better him than her. It fucking hurts. He tries to move the arm and grits a scream through clenched teeth. There’s a twang and a whistle and more pain, eye-splitting agony. There’s an arrow. In his throat. Shit. He falls to his knees, pulse everywhere. Blood tickles, trickles wet down his neck. This is it. This is how he dies. The fucking thing missed his spine and he’s choking. Slowly. White spots swim over his vision. A scream, from behind him. The guy with the axe, his blood on the blade, winds up.

Cracks of lightning whip around him, and suddenly everything smells sharp and burnt. Someone else screams and stops. Static crawls over him. Something explodes, heat sears his skin. Meraad seizes up, coughs against the blood in his throat, the arrow rips deeper, red hot pain. And then there are hands on him. Turaz is here, the kid’s got him, and it tears him apart that he’s gonna die in front of her. He’s gonna croak with her hands covered in his blood. Can’t. Her lips are moving, but his pulse roars in his ears.

“Let me! I can save you!” One of her hands is glowing, yellow-green, the fingers slick and dark under it, blood, his blood. Words from her mouth. More words, angry words.  
“Meraad, you fuckwit, I’m not letting you die, let me DO this,” she’s screaming, her face is scrunched all ugly and desperate, right in front of his. He gurgles a guttural sound, wheezes around the arrow and the pain and the metal tang. Black spots swim in his vision. Blood drips down his lips and he tips forward. The glowing hand comes closer, she yanks the arrow from his throat with the other. And then the darkness at the edges of his vision closes in and everything is dark and cold.

 

His head hurts. So fucking much. Grinding ache. Meraad breathes. He’s on his side. Mouth dry as hell. Everything aches, not just his head. He groans in pain and there’s movement, no touch.

“Meraad? Hear me?” That’s Turaz. She’s here. He makes another noise, weak and broken, cracks his eyes open. Day, still. Bright. Too bright. She’s kneeling in front of him, hands close, no touch.

“Don’t move,” she says and takes the waterskin. “Drink some water.” And she carefully, carefully pours water into his mouth. Crusted blood cracks on his lips when he swallows. Everything tastes like metal. He takes a few gulps, down his throat. Throat in one piece. No arrow. She lets him recover, then, just sits and waits. Meraad wishes he was fine. He is not, but apparently he’s not dead either. He smacks his lips, breathes in deep.

“Not dead,” he croaks, “Huh.”

Turaz looks at him, meets his eyes, with the apprehension written all over her face. Tense and unhappy and relieved.  
“I know you said no magic shit,” she bursts out, “but Meraad, you were dying, I didn’t want to do this, but I couldn’t just let you die like that, not if I could help-”  
“Hey.” She doesn’t hear.  
“And please, don’t hate me, but if you’d died then and there without me helping I’d have to drag your carcass to Nevarra and get you revived so I can kick your--”  
“Hey, stop,” Meraad grunts, and she hears this time, falls silent. “Hey. Thanks. ‘M not dead. Kid.”

Half the tension falls right out of her face and it’s a relief to watch. He twitches his shoulder, tries to flex his core, groans again. “C’mon, kid, help me up.” She leans in, carefully, and there’s a beat before she puts her hands on him to get him sitting up. Once he sits, he sees a dead guy, three feet in front of him. It’s the one with the axe. Probably. There’s that axe next to him, at least; his face is absolutely fried. Dangerous thing, huh.

“Thanks for saving my ass, kid,” he tells her, voice absolutely shot. Heh. Shot. “I’d’ve told you to do it. If I could’ve talked.” And he puts his hand on one of hers. She smiles a little, just a bit, relief bleeds out of every inch of her.  
“I dressed the other wounds without magic,” she offers. “The stab wounds. But... I had to fix your shoulder too, it was smashed, bone cracked and all.”

He looks down at his shoulder, scarred rough and ugly, but whole. There’s blood all over him still, on his arm and chest, and he can feel the crust from his mouth all the way down his throat. He puts the repaired arm around her, all careful, pulls her against him.  
“Thanks,” he rasps, with a sincerity he’s almost scared of feeling. “You’re a lifesaver, kid. You’re okay, right? We’re okay?”  
There’s a hitch in her breath and she follows the motion, leans against him.

“Don’t do that shit to me again,” she tells him in a voice almost as raw as his. “Don’t die on me, you massive idiot. I’m not letting you.”

“Good.”


End file.
